


But I'm Hopeful Yet

by The Librarina (tears_of_nienna)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Artist Grantaire, Dildos, It's a thing now, M/M, Modern AU, Sex Toys, wrong luggage AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-01-17 01:54:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1369585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tears_of_nienna/pseuds/The%20Librarina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A jet-lagged Enjolras picks up the wrong suitcase at the airport.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> From a tumblr post suggesting awkward/ridiculous modern AUs, culminating in "TOOK THE WRONG LUGGAGE AU." And now here we are.

Enjolras doesn’t realize anything’s wrong until he gets to the hotel. He opens his suitcase, looking for an aspirin to ward off a travel-induced headache, and everything is wrong.

He’s so jet-lagged that he just stares uncomprehending at the pile of jeans and flannel shirts where there should be jackets and ties. It takes him half a minute or more to figure out what happened.

He has the wrong suitcase. _How_ can he have the wrong suitcase? He’s been traveling with the same suitcase since before university; he’d recognize it anywhere.

Except, apparently, on an airport baggage carousel.

Okay. It’s not the end of the world. He doesn’t have any meetings until tomorrow, and it’s only seven o’clock here. There’s plenty of time to get this sorted out.

If his suitcase had been left at baggage claim, surely they would have called him by now. So it stands to reason that someone else has his luggage—most likely, the person whose suitcase is sitting on his bed. All he has to do is call them and they can set up an exchange.

Enjolras checks the tag attached to the suitcase’s handle and finds that it’s water-damaged, blurred beyond all recognition. He rolls his eyes, which doesn’t do anything to help his headache, but it’s simply irresponsible to check a bag without clear contact information on the luggage tag. All he can make out is a capital R.

He takes a deep breath. He’s a firm believer in personal privacy, which makes him feel a little bit bad about what he’s about to do, but he can’t think of a single reasonable alternative.

He starts emptying out the suitcase, looking for any clue as to the owner’s identity.

There are three pairs of jeans, all worn pale at the knees and frayed at the hems, like they’re a little too long for their owner. One pair has a splash of purple paint at the hem, and another looks like it’s been accidentally bleached.

The pockets of all three pairs are empty.

The flannel shirts are equally unhelpful, though they suggest a fondness for a ’90s grunge aesthetic, and also for the color green.  There are several pairs of silk boxers, which he ignores because they lack pockets and are therefore unlikely to be of any use to him, unless R-whatever is the type who sews his name into his underwear…

(He’s not.)

Moving on.

Carefully folded at the bottom of the suitcase are a pair of black dress pants and a crisp white button-down shirt. They’re expensive, well-made, and tailored—utterly at odds with the frayed and faded denim. Enjolras begins to wonder who in the hell this guy _is_.

The pockets of the dress pants are also empty. So much for the clothing.

He unzips the toiletries compartments one at a time, hoping with a sudden flush of embarrassment that Robert or Roger or _whoever_ isn’t doing the same to his suitcase. There are some things that he’d rather keep private.

The first compartment contains nothing special—toothbrush, toothpaste, a travel bottle of shampoo that smells like cinnamon and sandalwood.

What? He was curious.

The second compartment holds condoms and lube, which isn’t _exactly_ helpful, but now he’s slightly less worried about the other guy finding what’s in _his_ suitcase.

The third contains a stack of business cards, held together with a rubber band. Enjolras breathes a sigh of relief, but when he looks at the name on the card, he has to laugh.

 _R_. That’s all it says, in elegant script over a splash of what looks like watercolor paint, dripping down the card.

But there’s a phone number next to it. Enjolras slides his phone out of his pocket and calls.

It rings six times before someone picks it up. “Hello?”

"Hello. My name is Enjolras. I think I have your luggage…and I really, really hope that you have mine, too."

"It’s possible," he says, "but you could be anyone. Tell me something that’s in your suitcase that no one else would know about."

Enjolras’ face heats with a combination of embarrassment and indignation. R’s been through the suitcase then, and he’s seen everything.

But Enjolras is not going to give him the satisfaction of saying _there’s a six-inch red silicone dildo in the top left pocket_. “There’s a t-shirt that says _Liberté, Egalité, Beyoncé_ ,” he offers instead.

"Yeah, I was kind of wondering about that."

"It was a gift." Courfeyrac had presented it to him with an unholy amount of glee on his last birthday. He doesn’t wear it in _public_ , but it’s nice to sleep in, and it makes him feel like his friends aren’t quite so far away from him.

"Okay, Enjolras. I’m willing to believe that you’re you."

“ _Thank_ you.”

"So what do you do?"

"I’m sorry?"

"I was trying to guess what you do by the contents of your suitcase, but t-shirt aside, it’s all so fucking generic. You could be anybody. You could be a lawyer or a CEO or a con artist—oh, please tell me you’re a con artist, that would be _awesome_ —”

"I’m interning with the UN," Enjolras says shortly. "And don’t look through my stuff."

"You looked through mine, didn’t you?"

“ _Yes_ , but only because your luggage tag had gotten wet. The marker ran, and I couldn’t make out a phone number.”

"At least mine _had_ a luggage tag.”

"What?"

"There wasn’t a tag on yours at all."

Enjolras silently curses fate and the airline crew and whoever invented time-zones, because all he wants to do right now is _sleep_. “It must have gotten caught on something and torn off.”

"That makes sense. I was wondering if it was just a really random, absurdist way to meet new people. I could appreciate that."

Enjolras takes a deep breath and tries to put the conversation back on track. “Where are you staying?”

"That’s a little personal, isn’t it?"

"I’m at the Millennium UN. Are you anywhere nearby? Is there somewhere we can meet?"

"Meet me in the lobby. I’ll wear sunglasses and a fake mustache. You’ll ask me for the newspaper I’m not carrying, and I’ll give the countersign."

"What countersign?" Enjolras half-groans. He’s too tired for this.

"Relax, I’m teasing. I can be in the lobby of your hotel in half an hour or so. What do you look like?"

"Um."

"There’s probably a mirror in your hotel room, if you’ve forgotten," R adds helpfully.

"I’m blond. Tall. Um, my hair’s long? And I’m wearing red."

"Okay. Blond hippie giant in red. Got it."

"I’m not—" Enjolras starts to protest, but R’s already hung up.

He doesn’t have any idea what R looks like—he never even asked for the guy’s actual _name_.

* * *

Twenty-five minutes later, he’s standing in the hotel lobby with R’s suitcase, idly watching people as they pass through the doors. There’s no point in trying to spot R, since he has no idea what R’s actually supposed to _look_ like, but that doesn’t stop him.

Maybe he’ll recognize him by his suitcase.

Five minutes later, someone walks inside and stops, scanning the lobby. He catches sight of Enjolras and his eyes narrow for a second, and then he grins and his whole face lights up with it. He’s beautiful.

Enjolras was not prepared for him to be beautiful.

But it isn’t until R walks over to him that everything comes together. The paint on the jeans, the splashed watercolor of the business cards. The blue eyes and the wild tangle of curls finally tip him over into recognition.

"Oh. _R_. Like the artist.”

He smiles shyly and looks down. “Yeah. I’ve got a show opening this week.”

"I think I read that somewhere, I just never made the connection. I’m Enjolras," he adds.

"I figured." He sets the suitcase down. "So, I guess this is yours."

Enjolras nods. “And this is yours.” R leans forward to pick his suitcase up, and Enjolras catches the faint scent of cinnamon and sandalwood. He’s sorry when R steps back.

Enjolras takes back his own suitcase and feels a weight lift from his shoulders. He could have lived without the contents—though he would have missed the _Liberté, Egalité, Beyoncé_ shirt—but having it back is a relief nonetheless.

"Remember to get a new tag for that," R says.

"Sure. You should think about getting a legible one for yours, too."

R makes a face at him. Even _that_ 's attractive. “How long are you in town?”

"Just a few days," he says, wondering what exactly R’s getting at.

"If you have a chance, you should come to the show. It’s sold out," he says, looking almost embarrassed, "but I’ve got a bunch of comped tickets and they’ll just go to waste otherwise."

"I—I don’t know if I’ll be able to make it," Enjolras admits. "I’m on kind of a tight schedule."

"You can say you don’t want to, it won’t hurt my feelings."

"No," he says quickly. "I’d like to go, I just don’t think I’ll have time. And I’d be an embarrassment, anyway. I don’t know the first thing about art."

"You don’t have to. Nobody’s going to quiz you about influences and symbolism. Plus there’s free champagne."

"Well, free champagne," Enjolras says with a faint smile. "How could I turn that down?"

"I’ll leave a ticket at the front office with your name, just in case. Oh, and you should take this." R holds out his hand.

Enjolras takes the card from him and frowns at the familiar script _R_. “What’s this?”

"My card."

"I know that. You had dozens of them in your suitcase; it’s how I found you. Why are you giving me one?"

R’s smile is filthy-sweet. “In case you get tired of that toy in your suitcase.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So did you just call to tell me you liked the show?"
> 
> "Not exactly."

The first thing he does is bolt the door of his hotel room and Google the hell out of R. Which is about as difficult as you'd expect, trying to look up someone who's known by a _single letter_. Even Wikipedia has him listed as _R (artist)_ \--there's no full name to be had.

But he does learn that R is about his age, was born in the south of France, and presumably studied art, though no one seems to know exactly where. He also learns that R's art is described as post-post-nihilist, which doesn't make any sense to Enjolras even _after_ he reads the page it links to.

By the time he's done reading up on R, the jet-lag has fully caught up to him, and he falls asleep next to his laptop in the room's massive king bed.

If he dreams, he doesn't remember it.

* * *

Wednesday's meetings end two hours early, to the surprise of absolutely everyone. A few of the other interns immediately start scouring the Internet for last-minute Broadway tickets, but Enjolras shakes his head when they ask if he wants to go.

"Thanks," he says, "but I'm going to call it an early night."

Instead, he goes back to his hotel room, takes a shower, and looks up the gallery that's hosting R's show.

He only gets lost on the subway twice.

The gallery is in a converted warehouse, all brick and exposed steel beams. He steps inside, into a softly-lit hallway, and finds himself at the tail end of a very long line. He's the only one without a ticket in his hand.

When Enjolras gets to the head of the line, he smiles at the harried-looking college student sitting at the ticket booth. "Hi, there's supposed to be a ticket waiting for me."

The ticket agent's eyes sweep over Enjolras in a way that's decidedly judgmental. "Name?"

"It should be under Enjolras."

The agent flicks through a stack of tickets, and Enjolras starts to wonder if maybe R forgot to hold a ticket for him. Or maybe he put it under _blond hippie giant in red_. Or maybe it was just an empty promise.

No--it wasn't that. Any of the other things might be true, but R wasn't lying when he said he'd hold a ticket. Enjolras is sure of that.

"Oh." The ticket agent doesn't look bored anymore. His eyes are wide, and he smiles brightly when he hands the ticket over to Enjolras. "Here you are. Is there anything I can do for you, sir? Would you like some champagne?"

The ticket has a note on it, in a sharply slanting hand. _Personal guest. --R_

"Yeah," Enjolras says, eyeing the little flourish at the tail of the _R_. "That would be wonderful, actually."

He spends more than an hour wandering the gallery with a glass of champagne in hand. A lot of the pieces are dark and unsettling in a way that's both compelling and obnoxiously pessimistic, but there's no denying that R is incredibly talented. Enjolras can't claim to _understand_ much of it, but he tries not to let that bother him.

He also tries not to be bothered by the fact that R isn't there. It's not that he _expected_ R to be wandering around his own show every night...but maybe he'd hoped, a little.

Enjolras is one of the last to leave the gallery. It's still relatively early--so much so that the idea of calling it a night feels like a waste.

He stops in the hotel lobby, pulls out his phone, and calls R.

It's only polite to thank him for the ticket, after all.

R picks up much more quickly than last time. "Hello?"

"Hi. It's Enjolras," he says, in case R doesn't recognize the number. "From the suitcase thing?"

"I remember you. I didn't think I'd hear from you again, though. How are you?"

"I'm fine. I wanted to tell you that I liked your show."

"Really?" He can _hear_ the grin in R's voice. "I'm glad you got to go."

"Thank you for leaving me the ticket."

"No problem. The galleries always set aside a few for me, and I never use them."

Enjolras wants to ask why not, but he can't. It's awfully personal territory for two people who don't even know each other.

"So did you just call to tell me you liked the show?" R asks slyly.

Enjolras' voice catches in his throat. "Not exactly."

"Well?" R prompts. "Come on, we've gone through each other's luggage, there's no reason to be shy anymore."

"I was wondering if you were busy tonight," Enjolras says in a rush.

"No."

"Then would you want to--"

"Yes."

R's immediate answer is enough to make Enjolras smile.

"Sorry," R says. "Would I want to what?"

Enjolras considers several different answers. _Get coffee, have dinner, go for a walk_. He takes a deep breath. "I'm in room 3204," he says instead.

"Give me twenty minutes."

Enjolras goes up to his room and spends the ensuing fifteen minutes pacing barefoot from one end of the hotel room to the other. This isn't something he _does_. He doesn't hook up with people on business trips. He hasn't hooked up with _anyone_ in recent history, hence the dildo in his suitcase.

The dildo that R has _seen_.

That thought has come back to haunt him at the most inopportune times over the last few days. During meetings, at lunch, as a sudden thought that jerks him back from the edge of sleep. R had seen the toy in the suitcase--he'd given Enjolras his number _in case he got tired of it_. R must have thought about him using it, thought about what he'd like to do to Enjolras instead...

Someone knocks on the door. Enjolras glances through the peep-hole, but all he can see is R's hair.

He opens the door, and R steps inside. He's wearing a green flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled back, unbuttoned over a black t-shirt, and the paint-splattered jeans that Enjolras remembers from the suitcase. He's going to assume the presence of silk boxers until he has the opportunity to find out for sure.

Enjolras closes the door, locks it, and slides the chain into place. After a moment's thought, he undoes the locks, sticks the 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the outside handle, and locks them again.

"I brought you something," R says. He holds out a plastic luggage tag with I ♥ NY emblazoned on the back. Enjolras takes it, laughing, and R kisses him.

Enjolras' mouth is open in mid-laugh, and he closes it suddenly, nipping R's bottom lip in the process. R groans and nudges them back until Enjolras' shoulders are flush against the door.

Enjolras drops the luggage tag in favor of anchoring one hand in R's hair and using the other to pull him closer, catching his fingers in one of R's belt-loops. The door-chain rattles when R leans in, pinning Enjolras against the door with his hips.

R's tongue darts into Enjolras' mouth quickly, teasingly, before he trails a line of kisses across Enjolras' cheek. "How long have you been thinking about this?" he asks, his mouth hot on the angle of Enjolras' jaw.

Enjolras closes his eyes and concentrates on staying upright. "Since I heard your voice on the phone."

R's laugh is a warm puff of air against Enjolras' throat. "Really?"

"I liked your accent," he says, a bit breathlessly. It was like _his_ , or almost, and his voice had been wry and amused, and not half as flustered as Enjolras had been.

He pushes R back gently. They've gotten a little off-center, and the handle of the door is digging into his spine. R gives him a concerned look.

"Bed," Enjolras explains.

His expression brightens instantly. He kicks off his boots, and they sit side-by-side on the edge of the bed. There's nowhere else to sit, really, even if they wanted to maintain some pretense of civility.

Not that there's anything civil in the way that R has untucked Enjolras' shirt so that he can slide his hands over the bare skin beneath.

Enjolras shoves the flannel shirt off R's shoulders and tugs at the t-shirt underneath, rucking it up until R pulls away to yank it over his head. It leaves his hair messier than before, but the wild tangle of it suits him better than the half-tamed curls.

R uses the loosened knot of Enjolras' tie to pull him into a rough kiss while his hands tug at the knot. He winds one end around his hand and _pulls_ , and the tie slithers to the bed between them. He works open the buttons of Enjolras' shirt next, leaving it hanging open over his chest.

Enjolras shifts his shoulders and lets the shirt fall. He's already leaning forward to push R down onto the bed when R's wide-eyed look stops him.

" _Ink_?" R asks, mouth open in a delighted grin. "I never would have thought..."

Enjolras resists the urge to cover the tattoo just below his collarbone--a rust-black _liberté_ , in Robespierre's half-legible scrawl. Instead, he reaches out and palms R through his jeans, dropping him back onto the bed with a groan. He unbuttons R's jeans and tugs them down, intent on subjecting him to the same level of scrutiny R's currently giving him.

He barely gets the jeans past R's hips before he realizes that there are no silk boxers. There are no boxers at _all_ , just bare skin and the thick, hard length of R's cock. Enjolras looks up and finds R grinning down at him.

"What?" he asks, blinking innocently.

Enjolras yanks R's jeans off. He curls his fingers around the base of R's cock and watches the smirk slide off his face, his lips parting as the breath rushes out of him in a sigh. He draws his hand up in a long, slow stroke, and R's hips jerk towards him helplessly.

"Asshole," R mutters. "Take off your pants."

Enjolras laughs and pulls away, relishing R's pout as he lets go of his cock. He unzips his pants and lets them fall to the floor.

"Aw. No more tattoos?"

"Disappointed?"

"Oh, I didn't say that," R counters, his voice warm.

Enjolras' face burns, but he doesn't look away. "I'm surprised _you_ don't have any, as artistic as you are."

R wrinkles his nose. "Scared of needles," he admits.

Enjolras kneels on the bed and kisses him. R brushes the back of his hand along Enjolras' cock, knuckles just barely skimming over the skin, and Enjolras shivers, leaning closer.

"What do you want?" he asks, letting his lips brush R's skin as he speaks.

"You really want to know?"

"Of course."

"I want you to use the toy," R says. "I want to watch you fuck yourself on it."

Enjolras blinks and draws back just far enough to properly focus on him. "Really?" He can't imagine why R would find that interesting, not when _he_ could be the one fucking Enjolras.

A flush spreads across the bridge of R's nose. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about it since I saw it in your suitcase."

Enjolras bends down to press a kiss to the tip of R's nose. "Sure," he says. "If that's what you'd like." He gets up and opens his suitcase to find the black drawstring bag inside. He'd had half-formed plans to use it tonight, anyway--though he'd expected to be rather more alone.

Inside the bag is a bottle of lube and the dildo. He lies down on the bed next to R, uncaps the bottle, and pours lube onto two fingers.

He closes his eyes while he stretches himself open--he can't watch R watching him do this--but the sound of a shaky exhale is enough to tell him that he has R's attention, at least.

The dildo is relatively narrow ( _narrower than R_ , his mind treacherously supplies), so it doesn't take much preparation. And he's familiar with it--more so than he'd like to be, all things considered. He knows exactly how much he needs.

He withdraws his fingers and coats the dildo with lube. Then he lies down, half-curled on his side, and reaches back.

It's awkward, getting into position, finding the right angle, but there's _usually_ no one to see it. He tries to hurry, afraid that R's going to get bored watching him frown and fumble.

But when he dares to flick a glance up at R, he's watching him raptly, eyes wide and dark. It's unnerving in the half-light, and Enjolras closes his eyes again, focusing.

He takes a deep breath and works the toy deeper. He's concentrating so hard that he's actually surprised when the shaft bottoms out, and he gives himself a patient ten-count to get used to the feeling.

He slides the toy out and back in a few times in slow, even thrusts, judging by the changing look on R's face what he likes to see. He's never done this for anyone, never put on a show, and he wants R to like it.

But after a few minutes, he starts to get caught up in it. He doesn't _forget_ that R is there--that thrill of being watched never goes away--but it becomes slightly less about him and more about finding the perfect angle, keeping a rhythm somewhere just on the edge of satisfying. He's been hard since R pinned him back against the door, and now his body is begging him to do something about it.

R trails a hand up Enjolras' side, blunt nails leaving goosebumps in their wake. "Is it good?"

Enjolras draws in a shivering breath and nods.

"Can I...?" His hand glides back down, coming to rest on the curve of Enjolras' ass.

"God, _please_." He lifts his hand away, and R takes hold of the flared base of the toy. He pulls back about half an inch and then slowly presses forward again. Enjolras rocks back to meet him.

It's good, having someone else in control. The anticipation of not knowing exactly when a thrust will come, or how hard, lends a new thrill to the familiar feeling of the shaft inside of him.

He lifts his head and looks over his shoulder at R. "Harder?"

R's breath seems to stutter in his throat. He nods, and the next thrust is rougher, less tentative. The moan that escapes Enjolras' lips is loud and helpless, so R does it again. And again.

Every shift and twist of his fingers plays itself out along the length of the toy, changing the angle in tiny, overwhelming increments. Enjolras pushes back against R, against the toy, and curls his hands into fists, fighting the urge to take himself in hand and just--

He opens his eyes. " _Wait_."

The word slips out of him in a gasp, but R's hand stills instantly. "What is it?"

It takes him a moment to assemble the words into a complete sentence. "I'd rather have you than the toy," he says at last. "If you don't mind."

R makes a sound, deep in his throat, and gently pulls the dildo out of him. It feels like a step backward, the abrupt emptiness, and Enjolras bites down on a sigh even though he knows it's in service of better things. He watches through his lashes as R climbs off the bed and pulls a condom out of the pocket of his abandoned jeans.

R sits down on the bed again, and Enjolras feels a little guilty that, aside from that first teasing stroke, he's hardly touched him at all. He reaches out to make up for his neglect, but R catches his hand, long fingers circling Enjolras' wrist.

"Don't," he pleads. "I'll come if you do."

"But I haven't even--"

He laughs, high and tight and helpless. "Do you have any idea what you look like? What you _sound_ like? I could come just watching you."

Enjolras bites his lip and looks away, unable to stand the heat of R's inspection.

"Oh, don't do that, either," R groans, and Enjolras looks up at him, wide-eyed.

"I'm not doing anything!"

"You're _blushing_. And not just your face, but--all over, all down your throat and your chest. It's _adorable_."

Enjolras covers his face with one hand. "Are you finished?"

"No. Obviously."

Enjolras takes the condom from him and tears open the wrapper, then fits it over R's cock with ease, if not with steady hands. R's head tips back and his breath comes fast and shallow.

"How do you want me?" he asks, and Enjolras is pleased to note that his voice is shaky.

Enjolras considers, and then turns over to lie on his back. "Like this?"

R stares at him like he's committing every inch of him to memory. "I--yeah. Yes." He picks up the bottle of lube. "Fingers first, or are you okay?"

"I'm fine, just-- _now_ , please."

R opens the bottle, and Enjolras watches the muscles in his stomach jump and tense as he strokes himself, spreading the lube. He sets the bottle aside and kneels between Enjolras' legs. Enjolras adjusts to give him a better angle, lifting his hips and drawing his knees up.

R braces one hand on Enjolras' knee and uses the other to help guide him as he pushes in. He's bigger than the toy, but not so big that the change is painful. Enjolras lets his head fall back to the mattress and tries to remember to breathe.

He's _longer_ than the toy, as well, and it feels like an age before R is settled inside him. R looks a little dazed, and the room feels too warm. He drags his hands up Enjolras' body to twine their fingers together, pressing his hands to the mattress above his head. He cocks an eyebrow. "Okay?"

Enjolras is pinned, held perfectly in place by R's hands and hips and cock. He nods, and R bends down to kiss him, slow and open-mouthed. The motion rocks them both, shifting his cock inside Enjolras, and Enjolras muffles his groan against R's lips.

R eases forward in a shallow thrust. It's slow and careful, and Enjolras locks his legs around R's waist for leverage. The rhythm they set is a hybrid thing, built from R's caution and Enjolras' abandon.

Enjolras lifts his hips to meet each thrust, finding the angle that makes every tiny movement feel like electricity under his skin. R exhales a shaky stream of curses, and Enjolras wonders dimly when they slipped into French.

Or maybe they've been speaking it all along. He can't remember, and it probably doesn't matter. They're largely beyond words now.

R's breathing is ragged when he kisses Enjolras again. It's uncoordinated, a mess of a kiss, until R bites down on Enjolras' bottom lip and _sucks_. Enjolras writhes, rutting up against R in search of the friction he can't quite get on his own. If this goes on much longer, he won't _need_ R's hand on him, but it would be so much better that way--

It's like R can tell how close he is. He shifts his weight onto one hand and curls the other around Enjolras' cock. Enjolras rolls his hips, pushing up into R's fist and back onto his cock, far past any kind of rhythm.

But R is still somehow in control. His hands keep pace as his hips begin to move faster, snapping forward relentlessly as he draws them both closer to the edge.

"Enjolras--shit, I can't--" R's spine bows when he comes, driving deep into Enjolras. The last thrust matches itself to the rough pull of R's hand on his cock, and Enjolras comes with a sharp cry that he will flat-out deny for the rest of his days. His legs tighten around R's waist as he rides it out, the drag of R's cock drawing the moment out indefinitely.

R bends forward, resting his forehead against Enjolras' as they both catch their breath. Enjolras tips his head up to kiss him in a lazy, sated slide of lips and tongues.

When they're both a little steadier, R carefully pulls out of him and drops down onto the bed beside Enjolras, who tries to pull himself back from the brink of sleep. There are things he needs to say to R, like _are you staying_ and _please stay_ and _let's do this again in the morning_ , but he can't quite get a handle on the words in any of the languages he knows.

He curls up next to R and closes his eyes.

* * * 

Enjolras wakes up with the blanket tucked around his shoulders; the other side of the bed is empty and cool. He doesn't allow himself the fantasy of pretending the R might just be in the bathroom. Either he hadn't understood that Enjolras wanted him to stay, or _he_ hadn't wanted to stay. It's a shame either way, because he'd set the alarm early enough that they could have shared a shower.

He takes a boring, solitary shower instead, keeping the water a little colder than he wants, and he wonders why he's disappointed. Sure, they could have fooled around in the shower, and it would have been great, but after that? He'll be back in Paris in three days, and R will be off to some other art show in some other city, some other country. By the time he rinses his hair and turns off the shower, he knows that R had the right idea--a clean break is definitely better.

He almost doesn't notice it. He's dressed and ready to go, in the act of scooping up his room key from the desk, when he sees that the blank pad of hotel stationery is considerably less blank than it was last night.

On the top sheet is a ballpoint drawing of Enjolras, asleep.

It's not a sketch--a sketch implies roughness, something unfinished, and there's nothing on the page but smooth, deliberate lines. It's a profile view, head and shoulders and the faintest suggestion of the _liberté_ tattoo where the drawing fades to white space. Some artistic license has certainly been taken, because his hair never looks _that_ good spilled across the pillow, especially not after he's just gotten laid. The whole thing is, overall, somewhat prettier than it ought to be.

At first he thinks it isn't signed, but there's a tiny, graceful _R_ caught in a curl of Enjolras' hair.

He carefully pulls the sheet off the top of the notepad and tucks it in between the pages of his leisure reading--a biography of Karl Marx, for which Courfeyrac had teased him mercilessly.

On the way out the door, he spies the I ♥ NY luggage tag on the floor, and he smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. I get ridiculous stage-fright when publishing anything explicit.
> 
> I don't think there's such a thing as post-post-nihilist, but it seems like the kind of thing that R would invent.
> 
> I have a [tumblr](http://thelibrarina.tumblr.com)! Come say hi!

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Tom McRae's "Got a Suitcase, Got Regrets."
> 
> Originally posted at my [Tumblr](http://www.thelibrarina.tumblr.com). Come and say hi!


End file.
